


Let Me Whisper In Your Ear

by TheOtherMaddHatter



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Booty Dancing, Crack, Crack-turned-Sexy, Dancing, Get low Gents, Gimme da Booty, Hannibal is classy, I want da Booty, Lord what a Booty, M/M, Never trashy, One Shot, One!Shot, Show me the Booty, What the Hell does Will know about dancing anyways?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-25
Updated: 2013-05-25
Packaged: 2017-12-12 23:36:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/817361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheOtherMaddHatter/pseuds/TheOtherMaddHatter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So when Dr. Lecter -Hannibal- mentioned that he danced, well Will just assumed that if he wasn’t joking, he enjoyed some form of classical dancing.  Or something like that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let Me Whisper In Your Ear

**Author's Note:**

> This is ridiculous and I don't really care. Enjoy, ladies and gentlemen. This is crack to the max.

Will avoided eye contact.  He told almost anyone who got close to him that.  It was a fact, rule one when being in his presence, or dealing with him.  He didn’t do eye contact.  

 

He didn’t do eye contact for a variety of reasons, of course, and he’d almost always tell you that it was too much distraction.  Too much information.  That was only part of the reason.  

 

And it wasn’t his main reason by far.  

 

Will didn’t make eye contact simply because it revealed too much.  About him, about the people making the contact, sharing secrets and closely held tales without even meaning to.  You can tell so much from the eyes; emotions, problems, attitudes, the truth.  The eyes, after all, were the windows to the soul.  And no one needed to be anywhere near his mind, let alone his soul.  They’d be sucked into the muck that he constantly felt pulling at him from all directions.  Trapped, just like him.  

 

Dr. Lecter was no exception.  Will would only make brief, fleeting eye contact with him, despite having come to trust him almost implicitly.  In fact, he probably made even less eye contact with him just for that reason.  He didn’t have friends, and only vaguely had colleagues.  Those who got too close to him never made it out the same, if they made it out at all.  So on top of not making eye contact with the good doctor, Will can only rarely tell when it is he’s attempting humor.  And in those few cases, he usually only realizes it when implicitly told by Dr. Lecter himself.  It wasn’t like the man didn’t joke, because he did, it was just that Will had a hard time deciphering when it was happening.  

 

So when Dr. Lecter -Hannibal- mentioned that he danced, well Will just assumed that if he wasn’t joking, he enjoyed some form of classical dancing.  The Foxtrot perhaps, or maybe a faster paced Waltz.  Not this.  Never this.  Never in a million years.  

 

No, Will would never have guess that Dr. Hannibal Lecter, refined Dr. Lecter, enjoyed a more... lucrative form of dance.  A form that required a lot more physical contact that he was strictly comfortable with.  _A lot more_.  But here they were, investigating for a case, Will sat awkwardly at a corner booth watching the patrons at the small dance bar for any signs of their killer while Dr. Lecter made rounds.  And by rounds, Will meant with his hips.  Repeatedly.  

 

Hannibal -because this was not, _was not_ , Dr. Lecter any longer- moved just as gracefully as he did in every other venture that he pursued, confident in a way that Will can only continue to be envious of.  His suit only looked slightly out of place here, but the dance more than made up for it, the suave grinding both alarming and intoxicating.  People shouldn’t be made to move like that, Will thinks, and yet, here is the proof that they can.  More than can.  

 

Will knows his eyes are wide beneath his glasses and curly fringe, knows that he’s starring at the floor like it’s just insulted his mother, but he can’t control it.  Can’t control the blush that threatens his cheeks and neck.  Can’t fight the sudden tightening in his stomach that he’s more than uncomfortable with.  And deep down a part of him doesn’t want to.  

 

Because what a picture Hannibal makes, body moving fluidly with all the others out there, pressed tightly together on the dance floor.  The pulsing music almost a background to the joined heartbeats of those participating as they throng into one being.  He looks at home there, his pelvis, thighs, and hips swinging and grinding into the two figures pressed against him, arms touching arms, shoulders swaying in time.  He looks right.  It’s a good look on him, Will decides once he fights down the flush, and he’s never going to tell him.  Never going to mention the horrible, retched feeling of longing that keeps popping up like a bad penny.  And he’s never, ever, ever going to mention the surprise at finding out that Hannibal, Dr. Lecter, dirty dances.  


End file.
